


No More Substitutes

by ikoliholic



Category: Thor (Movies)
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, Extremely Dubious Consent, Loki (Marvel) Does What He Wants, M/M, Pining, Post-Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie), Pre-Thor: Ragnarok (2017), Pseudo-Incest, Rough Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-31
Updated: 2017-10-31
Packaged: 2019-01-27 11:22:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12580720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ikoliholic/pseuds/ikoliholic
Summary: It's Halloween on Midgard, and a throne-bored Loki thinks he may just like it.





	No More Substitutes

**Author's Note:**

> Just a quick and dirty little one. Happy Halloween, fuckers! I love you all.

Loki checks himself in the mirror, admiring his gaunt face and raven black hair. He’s always so enjoyed playing the role of someone else, feeling it takes the edge off grim reality a little.

Though the role of Odin started out as fun, now, if he’s being completely honest —and today he is— Loki is bored of it. He’s tired and he’s bored and that’s why tonight, he doesn’t bother with a disguise at all.

He wears an all-black suit from an apparently famous Midgard designer. Hair’s slicked back, face pale and bare, eyes wide and blue-green.

He puts a little eyeliner and black nail polish on, just for fun. It is ‘Halloween’, after all, or so these mortal fools so believe.

When he reaches the nondescript party he selected at random, in an American city he’s never even visited before, Loki is half-ready for a fight. He wants someone to recognise him, try to kill him by smashing a glass beverage over his head, perhaps. Something, _anything_ to feel alive.

Naturally, Loki begins to chagrin when not even a single soul recognises him. There he is, brazen as brass on this stupidest of Realms, and not one of these idiots even has enough wits about them to remember _Loki of Asgard_.

He needs a drink.

“What did you come as?” An unconvincing wizard retorts, “Pretentious Gucci Moron?”

“No.” Resisting the urge to stab him to death with his concealed throwing daggers, Loki grimaces instead, and plucks the unopened beer bottle from the stranger’s hand. “I am dressed as a marauder.”

He twists, discards the bottle cap and takes a sip at the drink, turning his nose up in distaste and immediately dropping it to the floor. Looks like he _definitely_ needs the Alfheim stash he’d brought with him.

He considers leaving for greener pastures when something catches his eye.

“Wow, look everyone, it’s Loki!” A blonde-haired, red-caped, bulking man proclaims to a room of indifference, booing and hisses. The man, Loki has to admit, does look incredibly, almost perturbingly, like Thor. Especially when he grabs the back of Loki’s neck. “You look _so_ convincing, brother.”

The strong smell of alcohol on his breath is oddly comforting to Loki. Although, _although_. He has a little too much beard, this Thor. Thor’s is rugged but trim— this Thor’s is just plain old rugged. His hair isn't quite golden enough either; it's golden, _sure_ , but not like pure sunlight.

“You don’t.”

Admittedly, he is _bursting_ out of the fancy-dress-shop-bought costume, firm bulk and broad shoulders clearly too big for it. Still, Loki wonders how rippling and firm those biceps _really_ are beneath the pitiful weave of fabric.

Ah, and a little too rounded in the stomach he is, from all that awful beer.

Ten years too young, too. Well, about ten centuries in Asgard time, but after gulping down three quarters of Alfheim hip flask, Loki was already too inebriated to do the proper mathematics.

He speaks with a false bravado of an accent, which Loki detests. Loki misses the firm but gentle nuance in his brother’s voice; words that berated and uplifted, when he permitted it so, of course.

Sighing heavily, Loki leaves the party for some fresh night air, only to be followed by the drunken fool moments later.

The thing that is most different is the eyes, though. They aren't a magnificent burning blue, instead a pleasant sapphire, darker and less glimmering under the light of the stars. Like his brother’s might look, had he lost a small part of his soul.

“It's very brave of you to come to a party dressed as Loki. No remorse or anything.”

“I like to think that he was misunderstood.” Loki says casually, hiding his annoyance quite well. “Perhaps the brother _you_ choose to imitate has villainous tendencies of his own.”

“Well, nobody's perfect. But I reckon the Mighty Thor’s not far off!”

“Is that why Jane just dumped your ass?” A woman says as she walks up to him, brushing up close against him.

Loki feels unwarranted jealousy surge through his entire body.

“Indeed it is,” Not-Thor laments, giving a toothy drunken grin. “And what might your name be, fair lady?”

Loki flicks his wrist and watches with glee as the bright red punch she’s holding ruins her skimpy white outfit.

“You asshole!” She shrieks and runs off.

“That’s my girlfriend not speaking to me for another night,” Not-Thor shrugs, swigging beer from a red plastic cup. Loki’s silver hipflask shines under the moonlight. “Can I have some of that?”

“Would you like to bed me, _Mighty Thor_?” Loki was in no mood for small talk, topping up the red cup with the alcohol. It is not meant for humans, but Loki does not care.

“Whoa, what makes you thi—”

“Because your eyes begged me to fuck you from fifteen feet away mere moments ago. Because you have that look about you, like you enjoy things you should not.” Loki’s eyes lock on his. “But most important of all, because I will make it worth your while if you agree. I am very good, I’ll have you know.”

“You are crazy. Extremely in-character, I might add. If the rumours are…” Not-Thor laughs nervously now, sipping at his drink. “Insane, nevertheless.”

“Is that a yes?”

Not-Thor’s mouth goes slack and sheepish. “It’s a thank you for your very tempting offer, but I don’t dare to swing that way while my girlfriend’s around these parts.”

“Very well.” Loki says. _Give it time_ , “If you change your mind, come find me.” He smiles then, sardonic and sweet. “Do enjoy your beverage.”

Not-Thor sips at his drink, Loki waits. And waits. Until the Alfheim brew has had the desired effect.

***

He tears off Not-Thor’s costume with literally no effort, the flimsy material might as well be gift wrap offering him a prize of flesh beneath. And _such pleasing flesh it is_ , Loki thinks, as his hands roam over skin that’s too tanned to be his brother’s. _Not golden enough_ , he muses, but his head dips low anyway for a taste; sea salt and sand in place of heady woodiness and delectable musk.

Unperturbed, he presses his lips to an earnest mouth once more.

The kiss is filled with heat and demand, yet lacks in history and fire— pure, thunderous fire that Loki cannot replicate, no matter how hard he might try.

He presses Not-Thor up against the grimy wall of the side alley, biting at his neck and warranting guttural moans.

He grabs for the straining cock he can feel pressed against his thigh; thick, large indeed, though nothing like how his brother’s might slice him in two, given the opportunity.

Still, Not-Thor groans and seizes up at the motion, clearly enjoying himself. “You’re crazy good at this,” he whimpers. “ _Brother_.”

It’s funny how that one word somehow stops Loki in his tracks; shutting him down physically, mind consuming itself with a thousand lifetime’s worth of love, laughter and pain.

“Fuck me,” Not-Thor says, assuming the word has had heated impact. His mouth curls into the word: “ _Brother_.” He could not be more wrong.

The _real_ Thor would never let himself be dominated so easily. He would put up a fight.

Loki looks into his eyes. This mere mortal, very handsome and debauched he may be, is no substitute.

“This isn’t working out.” Loki shrugs, turning on his heel to leave the piss-stinking alley.

“What the _hell_.”

With surprising force, Not-Thor grabs Loki and shoves him face-first into the wall, whispering into his ear. “You can’t get me all worked up to leave me high and dry, pretty boy.”

Loki laughs, wonders for a moment whether or not to murder this stranger with a flick of his wrist. But then, oh _but then,_ Not-Thor is licking a sticky trail up the side of his neck, clamping down and biting hard upon the tense flesh while digging grubby, greedy fingertips into Loki’s hips.

And really, he deserves it for near enough drugging the poor bastard with Alfheim’s finest, so he turns around and pushes him down; lets him strip the leathers from his trembling thighs with relative ease, welcomes the warmth of his mouth and the scrape of teeth across his hardened cock, wondering all the while how Thor would take it in his mouth. Would it be with wide, open eyes? Would they flutter shut with concentration? Mind reeling, Loki starts to fuck the face below him, grabbing welts of dirty blonde hair and gasping as the head of his cock rams into the back of Thor’s— no, _not Thor’s_ — throat.

He comes, hard and fast, making sure the teary-eyed stranger on his knees swallows it all down before he pulls away, heaving for breath.

“ _My god_ ,” Not-Thor rasps, coughing and spluttering. “You’re an _animal_.” Struggling to his knees, he pushes Loki back against the wall for a kiss nonetheless. Loki welcomes it, wishing to taste his own spend from another’s lips; something he has not done in centuries.

It is a mistake.

There is nothing of Thor in the kiss, and Loki’s belly pits with fury.

The stranger pulls back and smiles, wiping his sloppy mouth with the back of his hand. “ _My_ turn.”

Loki sniggers at the boldness. “I don’t think so.”

He _could_ be Thor, this mortal. Had Loki brought another hip flask with him, he would probably have knotted his fingers around blonde hair and fucked him dry; or splayed himself wide, hunched against the wall, and pretended it were his brother claiming every inch of humiliatingly wanton body.

But this is _not_ Thor, so with one hand Loki throws him across the alley, leaving him confused and broken, with the rest of Midgard’s dirt.

Loki would have no more substitutes.


End file.
